Inkblood
by Tintenschwert
Summary: Am I real? What am I made of? Am I fire? Flesh and blood? Or ink...Dustfinger ponders about what has become of him. Doubts tear at his soul...is he insane? Is he even alive? What is left, apart from ink and paper?
1. Alive

**Inkblood**

Disclaimer: Inkheart belongs to Cornelia Funke. Not me.

And yes, the title is from the second book (The original title was Inkblood. I don´t know why it was changed to Inkspell)

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**I**

He eyed the little bottle. It sat on Silvertongue´s desk. It contained ink.

He had done it again, he had visited Silvertongue. Begged to bring him back. To no use.

He believed Silvertongue when the man said that he couldn´t read him back.

There was no lie on Silvertongue´s face. The man couldn´t lie, you see it immediately.

On Silvertongue´s face there was regret. Sorrow. Pain. And the pity.

He couldn´t stand the pity. Anything, but the pity. He was real. He was there. He was alive.

_I am not a novel figure you brought to live. I am real. I am me. _

_I am more than words, more than paper and ink. I live, I breathe, I am here. Stop pitying me!_

_I lost a whole world, everything. But I am still here. I am willing to fight for a place in this world. And if there is none, I will make one. I won´t back down. I will fight!_

He looked at the bottle of ink on the desk. _I am more than this._


	2. Doubts

**Inkblood**

Disclaimer: Inkheart belongs to Cornelia Funke. Not me.

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**II**

"It was you fault!" he wanted to scream at Silvertongue. "You did this!"

Dustfinger didn´t feel well. This world was making him sick.

The water tasted like acid, the air seemed poisonous, and he felt so alone here.

At least he had still Gwin. If he wouldn´t have had the horned marten he would have gone mad some time ago. But..what if he was mad? What, if he just believed he was Dustfinger? What if he was just a lunatic thinking to be a novel figure...

When he thought of it...he couldn´t be just a character from a novel. That couldn´t be.

And surely no one had read him out.

Maybe he was sick...maybe he was mad...maybe none of this was real

Not more real than this bottle of ink.

_Am I ink? Or am I insane?_

Right now, he was too confused to say which one was the better option...


	3. Blood? Ink?

**Inkblood**

Disclaimer: Inkheart belongs to Cornelia Funke. Not me.

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**III**

Who was he? A novel figure, trying to prove that he was real? _I´m not a illusion!_ he thought. _I am_ _real!_

Was that why he stared at the ink? The black fluid in the bottle...

What if he wasn´t more than that?

He was just ink. Just black ink and paper. Not more. He was ..words on paper. He wasn´t real.

Silvertongue was a man of flesh and blood. His little daughter was real.

Dustfinger...he was ink. No blood, ink.

The nasty voice in the back of his head whispered to him. _You´re a pathetic weakling. You are paper. Ink. You are just words. You are fake. You are not real. You don´t live. You don´t exist!_

Dustfinger wondered. If he cut his finger, would there be blood? Would there be ink? What would happen?

What would happen to him, if something happened to the book? What if a site was torn out? A site with his name on? Would he disappear? Would he go back? Would he die?

He curled himself to a ball...

_And what will happen if nothing happens? What will happen to me? Will I age? Will I ever die? Was that possible?_

The persons in the stories from his world didn´t age. Some stories were told from generation to generation. The king from the story would always have the same age, no matter if his story was told now or a hundred years ago. A thousand years ago...

He shivered. The possibility of being trapped here forever, with not even death to save him...

that was unbearable.


	4. Chapter 4

**Inkblood**

Disclaimer: Inkheart belongs to Cornelia Funke. Not me.

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**IV**

In his world fire was almost an obedient pet, a loyal, good friend. Fire was like another limb to him. Fire did everything when he thought of it. When he whispered the words, fire listened and obeyed.

In this world, fire was a beast. It was a devourer, a fierce, violent force. He couldn´t talk to it, hear it, control it - it was a stranger.

Dustfinger felt like waking up and suddenly your best friend doesn´t recognize you anymore and fights you.

When he first saw fire, he outstretched his hand and it bit him.

Of course he knew that fire was dangerous and not a toy, but he had been so relieved to feel his old friend again, he forgot about his cautiousness.

His fingers were burnt, but the pain in his heart was worse.

All bonds to his life were severed.

Except for that book.

For the Inkheart.


End file.
